is such abundance:
dust I gather without cease
from every corner, dust I sweep
into the yard. So many we’ve loved
have gone to sod, their hair
frozen into salt,
their fingernails chipped to points
of light. They’ve chiseled
their bones for furniture:
each line bleached
like balsa, minimal as art.
You said The light
after rain, how lovely
in the trees: how the world
is loveliest made strange.
In response to Via Negativa: Uncommon Prayer.
Wow. I love this poem. I don’t understand the balsa, but all the rest — you know when you go to pick out your favorite line or two, and you end up highlighting the whole poem? Like that.
Dale, thank you. Here’s the Wikipedia entry on balsa. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ochroma_pyramidale